


Both Men, Drunkenly

by SamtheFan99



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: AtLA, Avatar, LBGT, M/M, One Shot, mature - Freeform, the last airbender - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 05:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20334898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamtheFan99/pseuds/SamtheFan99
Summary: 18+ One ShotI was tired of the cliché gay smut that was either vaguely rapey, physically impossible, poorly developed, or straight-coded.This is a scene from an original novel of mine, edited for AO3 consumption so that it can be enjoyed with minimal backstory, and it is the only one of its kind. I’ve inserted some borrowed character names so I can claim this is a fan fiction.A couple notes:Sokka is a British rockstarZuko is his managerThey have an apartment together in the cityKiyu is Sokka’s biological daughterLeave a classy comment and Enjoy.





	Both Men, Drunkenly

The night of celebration is faded with stolen, boozy clarity. We had spent all evening at a new bar, the one with the prettiest neon sign that we later discovered to be a gay bar. We spent the hours playing pool and chatting with bears who rode motorcycles and liked to hike and scuba dive and partake in other eccentric pastimes that suited their illusive yet friendly personalities. They bought us drinks, even after we told them we weren't looking for a hookup nor a boyfriend. They promised to spoil us, as we were so gorgeous it was maddening, and did so long after their advances were turned down. Sokka and I leave feeling like primped, wasted trophy wives, our egos boosted from all the alcohol and flirtatious attention. Though we both certainly look a mess, his dark curls even more astray than usual, my once tucked dress shirt long since pulled from my waistline, we feel invincible.  
We laugh boisterously the whole way home, stumbling against one another as we each try to take lead, failing upon the realization that neither of us are capable of the sober dexterity we both attempt.  
Our apartment is cool compared to the mild spring evening. Zara is waiting for us on the sofa, tapping away at some handheld video game, and she stands when we come through the door. Though she is only a teenager, not much younger than I, she detects our drunkenness before we even speak. She smiles, shoves her game into her back pocket, and sits back on her heel.  
"Fun night?" she asks.  
"Yes," I say. "Bears everywhere. How's Kiyu?"  
"I just put her down ten minutes ago. She's out."  
"She finished her bottle?"  
"Didn't leave a drop."  
"We, erm..." Sokka begins, his accent exaggerated from the alcohol. "What d'you think? Should you stay?"  
Zara eyes both of us up and down as we sway slightly where we stand. "She'll be fine. She's been sleeping through the night, hasn't she?"  
"For about a month."  
"Then you have nothing to worry about, as long as one if you isn't too hungover to give her breakfast."  
"We'll be okay then," I tell her.  
I pay Zara, thank her as articulately as I can, and show her out. When I close the door behind her, Theo has already disappeared into the bathroom. I follow, to ensure he doesn't drown in the toilet or something.  
He's brushing his teeth when I come in, and I join him, both of us looking on lethargically as we scrub the fronts of our teeth, dissolving the lingering taste of alcohol. We rinse with mouthwash and lean against the counter, watching our reflections with the familiarity of an old married couple.  
"We've been through a lot, Sokka," I tell him.  
"Like?"  
"We're raising a kid together. Developing our careers together. Getting wasted at gay bars together."  
He snickers. "Dude, they wanted to shag us so bad."  
"I know," I say. "Can you blame them? We're the most gorgeous couple in the world."  
"Shit, we should have told them we were married." He frowns deeply. "It would have been easier than trying to explain to a bunch of bears why two single and apparently straight guys were in a gay bar together."  
"We basically are married," I tell him. "Just none of that, what do you call it? Snogging?"  
"Snogging," he repeats. "It's been a while since I've had any of that. Not since Mia was conceived."  
"Even with your rockstar lifestyle?"  
"Don't play dumb, all I do is hang out with you." He pauses. "And yet, you and I never snog."  
"Don't we?" I ask, feeling a dumb smirk cross my face when I pull him in and peck him on the lips.  
There's a slight grace period as he registers what's just happened. Then, with no hint of a smile, he dives at me, looping both arms around my neck, and kisses me full force, unabashedly seeking my tongue and pulling my hair. We crash against the bathroom door, and though it is not my definition of a perfect kiss it is with Sokka, someone I consider the most important person currently in my life. Him kissing me is not unheard of, so I simply allow it.  
Then, his hands scrape upward against my body, dragging my shirt over my head and off, and I realize the intention. There's nothing about this I can pass off as heterosexual, nothing I can claim to be the intimacy of two men raising a child together or the familiarity of an old married couple or a pair of best friends. He wants to have sex with me.  
"Sokka," I say, dodging him somewhat, but I am all too easily sucked back into the moment with a rough grab of the hips.  
Do I mind? Is the gender of the person I fuck even a factor anymore?  
He drops slightly, ducking to nip my chin and neck, and once I wrestle away the conflict of homosexual and heterosexual, I feel myself succumbing, protesting but inviting him closer regardless.  
"Dude," I say to him. "What are you doing?"  
"There's no reason we can't have this pleasure," he mumbles against my skin, taking me by the jaw and tilting my head up to allow better access to my neck.  
His mouth meets my jugular, sucking with masterful pressure, and my knees almost buckle beneath me. His arm comes around me, erecting me and slamming me against the door as a reinforcement of the security of his decision.  
"It doesn't bother you that we're drunk?" I ask.  
"I wouldn't be able to this sober," he says. "But I refuse to regret it."  
"Why?"  
"Does it matter?" he dismisses.  
"Yes, it matters," I tell him. "Why me?"  
"Who else would it be?" he asks. "It's not like I have a girlfriend, and it's been too long. I trust you. Likewise?"  
"I've never thought of myself as gay, Sokka."  
"And clearly that changes nothing," he says, grazing the well-developed erection I've been somewhat trying to hide. "You're still human. Your heterosexuality, no matter how real, hasn't been strong enough to keep you from accepting the pleasure."  
He works my button free with a recognizable drunken clumsiness. He nips my chest as he does, and he smells just as strongly of flowers as he always has, and in the moment I am able to admit to myself that it is the masculinity I find in him that arouses me as much as the clear femininity.  
He drops my pants, his hands trailing down my arms and wrapping around my wrists, and as he lifts them and slams them backward against the bathroom door behind me he ducks for my neck. I enjoy every second of his faulty gentleness, and as I feel his teeth bite down on my ear lobe my knees wobble fully beneath me. An epiphany strikes me.  
"I don't care," I murmur to him. "Holy shit, I don't care."  
"I didn't think so," he says, and he releases a wrist to slip his hand down the front of my boxers, gripping me fully around the shaft and giving a pull.  
I grunt, bucking forward against him, reaching up to tangle my free hand in his curls. This is too easy, to give in like this. I consider if it's just because I'm a slut, or because I have some latent homosexuality, now unrepressed, or if it's just because I love him so dearly that I don't mind the vulnerability.  
"Sokka," I say.  
"Yes."  
"You'll be the one taking me?"  
"If that's what you want."  
The husk in his voice is new, and irresistible. I yank him by the hair into another kiss, more involved than I expected. His hand stays at my groin, returning after the brief moment where I sloppily rid him of his shirt. He is warm, and firm, and despite his mannerisms there is nothing feminine about his body, nothing there that I have ever found pleasure in before.  
"You're my best friend," I tell him.  
"And you're mine."  
"You're a guy," I say.  
"I know."  
"And I don't care that you're a guy."  
"Good."  
"Where?" I ask.  
"My room."  
"What about Kiyu?"  
"She'll be fine," he assures me. "We can be quiet, right?"  
"Sure," I tell him.  
"I mean, there's no way it'll be that good, right?"  
"Excuse me?" I say. "I'm a professional."  
"Maybe with girls."  
I'm about to argue, but he quirks a little smile that makes me weak despite the obvious smugness behind it. I take him by the lower back and kiss him again, smearing away that smirk, muting it behind physical demands that are probably too aggressive.  
Together we maneuver away from the door, open it, and then hurry to the next room over, decorated with Sokka’s unique style. He tackles me onto his bed and I go down without a fight, splaying myself outward to ease the touch starvation I have felt for too long. He drags both hands down my ribs, all the way down my legs, taking my jeans with him. He nips at my thighs and kneecaps, touching with such perfect presence that he becomes a phantom, inarguable, airy, his hands delivering what I crave constantly, bereft since Mai left me. He smashes our mouths together again before he trails his tongue down my body, draws down my waistband, and takes me to the back of his throat.  
I find myself calling and calling his name despite myself, despite the fog, despite the fact that I could easily convince myself that it's Mai here on top of me, but I don't. I know exactly who delivers the pleasure I crave, and then I am left to consider the nature of our relationship. Will our chemistry change? Are we sacrificing the informal, relaxed ease that comes with our interactions?  
"Sokka?"  
"Hm?"  
"Are you in love with me or something?"  
"Mm-mm."  
"This is casual?"  
"Mm-hm."  
Funny sight that comes with this answer, his head dipping forward with more fervency. I think of the incident in the back of the bar, where I had let some poor sap who had clearly had more than me to drink go down on me. I convince myself that as long as I love Sokka, as a friend if nothing else, that I am not a slut nor should I feel guilty about this interaction. Parenthood oftentimes means the neglect of one's pursuit of pleasure, and as long as pleasure is here, offering itself to me, I shall take it, no matter its form.  
As I watch Sokka work I consider if it's courtesy in this situation to return the favor. I'm about to ask, not knowing how I would feel about myself tomorrow should I fail to be courteous tonight, but when I lift my head my surroundings spin violently and I simply let myself enjoy.  
"Fuck," I say. "I can't see straight."  
He pauses. "You want me to stop?"  
"No." I gasp when I his tongue crosses my tip. "It's because of you. I don't want to see straight."  
He continues, leaning forward with all ten fingers pressing into my pelvis.  
"Sokka," I say. "Sokka."  
"Yes," he returns, lifting his head and brushing his curls out of his face.  
"Why are you being so gentle?" I ask, wondering if his stories of his kinky history are fake. "This isn't right."  
"Well, I care about you."  
My fists clench at his response. "I don't want gentle," I hiss. "I want to fuck the life out of you."  
A grin spreads across his face. "In that case, then, I guess—"  
I reach down and take him by the wrists, turning us over and pinning him so he can't say anything else cheesy enough to make me cringe. I duck, biting down on his earlobe, my nose immersed in sweetly scented curls. I mold my mouth to his neck, sucking so carelessly and fervently that I don't count the splotchy hickeys as they form, and he winds up with several before his cries interrupt me.  
"Stop," he warns. "You'll make me come."  
With one hand below us, I feel my way around his fly and shove his pants down to his knees, revealing a barely-contained hard-on that twitches with my every breath.  
"You like pain," I tell him. "I'll give you pain."  
"Oh, fuck," he breathes out, wide eyes fading with unsteady intoxication and pleasure and anticipation. I yank his pants down, tossing his clothing to the foot of the bed. He slaps the top of his nightstand, wordless, and I open the top drawer to discover a box, overflowing with toys and collars and clamps, and at the very top, a bottle of clear, viscous liquid.  
"Why do you even—?"  
"I had a sex life once," he tells me. "Get the bottle."  
"Lube?" I ask.  
"Please."  
I soak us with it, despite the unpleasant shaking of my hands, then take him by the hips. He inhales, arches his back, and whimpers as I ease into him.  
"Oh my fucking god," I breathe.  
He exhales as I fall still, digging my fingertips into his thighs. "It's nice?"  
"I've never felt anything like this."  
"Nor have I," he agrees breathlessly, a heavy blush resting on his face. "Oh, fuck, Zuko."  
"How hard can I go?" I ask him. "How much do I have to control myself?"  
"Unrestrained," he tells me, relaxing more with each second. "Don't control yourself."  
I take him by the erection and also by the hip, tilting me toward him as I experiment with angles. Each time I earn a different noise, and a particular arch of the hips yields a sudden gasp.  
"Oh, fuck," he says, clenching around me.  
I retract slightly, separating our centers, and when we return together he snatches both of my wrists and squeezes.  
Everything feels entirely new, around me, within me, everywhere. Briefly I wonder if his invitation to forsake my self control was genuine. Then comes a stout whine from the back of Sokka’s chest, and I find that I cannot promise restraint. A third time I circle my hips, a third time I find myself submerged in an incredible heat and tightness that is unlike others I have felt.  
"Pain?" I manage to ask.  
"The alcohol helps."  
"I'm dizzy, Sokka."  
"Too drunk?"  
"Yes," I answer honestly. "And you. I can't wait much longer."  
"Go," he orders.  
I roll my hips upward and back against his, grinding against the frontmost boundary where the hottest flesh lies. Both my hands drag down his stomach and come to rest on his thighs, digging in against soft hairs and skin.  
"Oh, fuck," he repeats. "Oh, fuck, I feel it. I won't last long. I'm sorry."  
"Tell me to stop," I beg him, my pace quickening, my grinding growing firmer. "Too rough. Too much. Something."  
"No, please don't stop," he says, and begins to repeat this like mantra, his voice growing louder until he is demanding of the ceiling above him as I rock the two of us together.  
"Incredible," I mumble. "Jesus Christ."  
He writhes momentarily, nestling his backside against me, and I reach forward and fist a hand in his hair, thick and soft as it twists around my fingers. This earns me another heated grunt, and I give a pull on his hair and lower back that erects him up onto my lap to straddle me.  
"Oh, fuck," he says again, louder this time, sucking in a quick breath alongside it. Then he cries out, properly and from the base of his chest where I can feel his diaphragm contract.  
I pull his head back, casting out a long groan as the pheromones leaking off his neck leech into my skin. I bite him here, watching his every tumultuous facial expression he makes as we move together, deeper than before. I can feel that I have reached the hottest part of him, pressing with every movement to the limits.  
"This is dangerous," he says, fighting the restriction of my hand in his hair, and then he kisses me, open mouthed, exhaling alcohol and toothpaste into my lungs. A long moan follows, inciting my desire, demanding a hard thrust upward into him.  
"The sounds," I tell him. "Jesus fucking Christ."  
"Don't stop," he demands, balling both hands into my hair and tilting my face up to look at him. He smashes another kiss on me, trailing hot lips down along my jaw, pressing me against his chest as our movements grow quicker and less patient.  
"Fuck me," he begs. "Oh, fuck, I can't—"  
His cries cut him off, crescendoing into moans, and as his fists tighten against my scalp I feel him twitch between us, leaving hot strings of moisture across his chest and mine. The sound he makes is indescribable, the face he makes is mind-boggling. The pain of his nails on my skin is a welcome feeling. I snake my arms around his lower back and let go, tilting my head into his neck and releasing inside him on the next pulse.  
For a moment we do nothing but recover, waiting for our breath to return to us. I lay him gingerly down on his back, untangling us, feeling myself come down from the high. The presence of alcohol is less prominent, my head more stable than a minute ago. As I steady myself I sit still, watching Sokka pant quietly on his comforter, spindly legs bent awkwardly as his body splays limply. I retrieve his discarded boxers from the foot of the bed and clean myself off, then stoop over him and gently wipe away the final traces of what sounded like the most indescribable orgasm ever.  
"Did we wake Kiyu?" he asks.  
The apartment is silent now. I shake my head.  
"Good," he says.  
"Okay, well," I begin, "goodnight."  
"You're leaving?"  
"I do have a bedroom."  
"Aren't we supposed to cuddle or something?"  
"No, why?" I pause. "You know, it's okay to have a crush on me, Sokka."  
"I don't, normally," he says. "Just for now, and I'd like to be held, please."  
"Alright," I tell him. "But only because you were so polite about it."  
He sits up, wraps both arms around my neck, and pulls me down on top of him, nuzzling my throat. We are chest to chest, bare skinned, and again I am astounded at the intimacy of the situation and the ache it relieves in the pit of my stomach, different than the one relieved by our activities a moment ago. Maybe Sokka and I should cuddle more and stop there. It might do us some good.  
"You cold?" I ask.  
He shakes his head. "Sore."  
"Sorry."  
"That means you did it right." He turns us to one side, and we curl together again. "Don't ditch me as soon as I fall asleep."  
"I won't."  
"You'll be sober long before me."  
"I'm getting there now."  
"Pity me," he says, and presses us closer together. I secure the contact with a squeeze, hearing his spine pop a few times, and soon he's asleep and drooling on my shoulder. 

————————

The following morning Sokka’s stirring wakes me. He groans in such a way that tells me he's hungover.  
Briefly last night's events escape me, and I am stunned to find myself wrapped up in his naked body, but then the soreness reminds me and my unease fades.  
"Hey," I say.  
Sokka cracks his eye open, startling visibly.  
"What are you—?"  
He stops, jerking away from me, then reacts to the sudden movement.  
"What in God's name did we—?"  
Another stop. He glances to me, his cheeks flushing pink.  
"You remember?"  
"I do," he says. "The details are coming back to me. You and I—"  
"I'm offended you forgot."  
"I had a lot to drink."  
"Me, too," I say. "And yet, you're branded into my mind."  
"No, no, I remember. It was decent."  
I smirk. Decent.  
He stretches, frowning. "Bollocks, I'm sore."  
"Me, too."  
His eyes trail down.  
"Don't look," I tell him, tossing the comforter partway over myself. "Last night was last night."  
"Dude, it was in me. I can look if I want to."  
I sit up, stretching my back, briefly going over the more subtle happenings of the previous night. I recall the tenderness there, the kissing, the touching, the intimate conversation, all things that don't happen with a quick fuck. I can recall the process behind every hickey he wears now, the voracity that created them.  
I reach out and lift his hair, examining the bruises that start below his ear and follow the entirety of his neck, partway onto his shoulder.  
"Was it just sex?" he asks.  
"I don't know. You started it."  
"Why did I?"  
"I don't know. I thought you'd have an explanation."  
"I don't," he admits. "I've been abstinent a while."  
"There was something about it," I say. "You wanted to cuddle after."  
"And?"  
"I doubt it was just to relieve some urge," I tell him. "If there's something you haven't been telling me, I'll understand."  
"You're overthinking. Of course it wouldn't be cold and meaningless," he says. "You're my best friend, the most darling boy I've ever known. Of course I love you. We're raising a child together, we go on tour together. Last night was just an expression of all that."  
"I suppose," I agree hesitantly. "We can't do this again, Sokka."  
"Not that I was planning a second round, but why? Didn't you enjoy it?"  
"Too much," I say. "I don't know, I'm in love with someone else, and a woman, nonetheless. I don't think I would have been able to do this without the alcohol."  
"Me, neither." He scratches the back of his head, grimacing at what must be a killer headache. "What about Kiyu?"  
"I'll check on her, and make some coffee."  
"Thanks."  
"Yeah," I say, and I excuse myself. 

——————

Kiyu, after a hearty breakfast, falls asleep against my chest as I sit alone, drinking coffee in the living room. Sokka emerges from his bedroom, squinting at the light filtering in through the windows.  
"How are you not hungover?" he asks bitterly.  
"I've never had one," I tell him. "Firebenders must be invincible, I guess."  
"Clearly not to my impeccable charm," he chuckles, scratching the back of his head. "I, uh...I didn't pressure you into it, did I?"  
"No, no, I was willing. It's strange to know that all you had to do was make a move to get me to participate."  
"This arrangement we have, I've never seen it before. Of course there will be unusual interactions."  
"Would you have chosen this?" I ask him. "Raising a daughter with me instead of Suki?"  
"I don't think I could have picked a better coparent," he says, squinting at me. "Why do you ask?"  
"Well, this isn't how I assumed I'd have kids. I thought they'd be my own, with Mai."  
"Mate, I am sorry about her," he says, "but it's foolish of you to not consider Kiyu your own."  
"No, you're right. I just spent so long imagining how it would happen, and obviously I never considered this an option before you showed up at my door with a newborn. I certainly never thought I'd be without Mai at all."  
"I know." He inhales pensively, twiddling his thumbs. "If all this was brought up because of my indiscretions last night, I'm sorry. Our time would have probably been better spent looking for a girlfriend for you."  
"I'm not looking for any romance," I tell him. "I haven't been able to get Mai off my mind."  
"Not that it matters to me, but is that who you were thinking about last night?"  
"No, no. It doesn't bother me. If there were anyone in the world to do that with, it's you. It was unforgettable, which is good because we can't make that a habit."  
"You mean for Kiyu?" he asks.  
"Either the people who parent her are in a proper relationship or not. It shouldn't just be sexual."  
He nods, extending his arm to receive the coffee I hand him. "Right. That'd be odd."  
"Right."  
"So I think it's best if I stay sober around you," he says. "You know I just can't resist you when I drink."  
I curl both arms around Kiyu and litter her silky cheek with kisses. "It's flattering, really."  
He pivots on the couch, stretching out and nestling his head in my lap, narrowly avoiding worsening the soreness I still feel.  
"Nothing will change, right?" he asks. "We'll still be us?"  
"Which, friends, coparents, or a manager and his little rockstar?"  
He rolls his eyes. "I'm only a year younger than you, you twat."  
"That didn't stop you from all that begging you did last night."  
"What can I say?" He shrugs. "You're a real talent."  
"I've been told," I say. "Of course we'll be the same. We still have a baby, and a tour, and a place."  
He presses his fingers against his temples, grimacing again. "Right, responsibilities."  
"Headache?"  
"Worse than you can imagine."  
I set down my coffee and thread my fingers into his hair, pressing into his scalp, doing my best to ease the tension.  
In response, Sokka quirks a small smile and allows both shoulders to fall limp against my thighs.  
"You are my favorite manager ever."  
"I know," I answer.  
"Tragically unprofessional, though, shagging a client."  
"We've been over this. You started it."  
"I'm allowed to be reckless. I'm the rockstar of this relationship."  
He grins, rolls over, and rises, all with much more grace than I expected. He stoops, lays a kiss on me, and skirts away before I can thwack him.  
"Sokka!" I scold.  
"Sorry, sorry. Last time, I promise."  
He disappears into his bedroom, giggling.


End file.
